


A Tactical Maneuver

by mothermalfoy (MsLyraMalfoy), shadow_prince



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Boys In Love, Cissy isn't helping me tag, Enemies to Lovers, Epilogue What Epilogue, Friends to Lovers, HAVE AT THEE, Harry and Draco were still not friends, Implied Bottom Draco, Locker Room, M/M, Quidditch, So here we are, THERES SMOOCHES, but turned out just super soft, canonish, enemies to smooches, hellagay, implied top Harry, no Voldemort AU, they smooch, this was supposed to be smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 05:56:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19761982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsLyraMalfoy/pseuds/mothermalfoy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_prince/pseuds/shadow_prince
Summary: Four former students return to Hogwarts as professors and teenage fantasies come to light.





	A Tactical Maneuver

**Author's Note:**

> To be honest, this started with [a meme](https://puffinmaster246.tumblr.com/post/182887143841/not-to-post-harry-potter-in-2019-but-im-right) I found. As most things do. Hope you enjoy some soft nonsense~

_Meet me in the Gryffindor lockers, tonight 10pm._

_-HP_

Draco read over the message several times to be sure he understood it correctly. There was no mistaking that messy scrawl. He was sure it was a mistake. Surely Harry Potter hadn’t _actually_ meant to invite him anywhere, let alone the Gryffindor Quidditch locker room at night. Draco swallowed, staring down the staff table at Potter, who was currently in a rather animated discussion with Oliver Wood, the new Flying Professor that year. Draco frowned down the table, then turned back to his meal. It had been less than seventy-two hours as a Hogwarts professor, and as with all of his time at Hogwarts, it was clearly going to be a rather interesting year. 

The remainder of breakfast was terribly uninteresting, no one seemed particularly keen to talk to Draco, he’d been stuffed next to several of the more ancient professors who were all muddled in a discussion about ‘the good old days’. Of which Draco had absolutely no interest. He wondered if Minerva weren’t punishing him somehow, but of course, that was silly. She had personally invited him on to become the new potions professor when Severus had invariably retired. He was even the Head of his House no less. Potter couldn’t say that. The position had been a toss up, with so many former Gryffindors suddenly joining the ranks of Hogwarts professors that year. Actually, Draco had been surprised that the role hadn’t automatically been given to Potter just on principle. But then, he had always been fond of Oliver Wood and Percy Weasley, which was perhaps why he had left it to them to figure it out. Draco had rather thought they might find a way to share the title, the two were _oddly_ inseparable. There was little he remembered precisely of the elder Weasley from his time at Hogwarts as a prefect but he was fairly certain he was insufferable, and as for Wood, well… He had been the rival leader of the Gryffindor Quidditch team so there wasn’t much to say there. Still, at least both of them could say they had a friend. 

Draco had no one. To be fair, no one had really seen Draco for the last five years, not since graduation when he had moved to France to " _find himself "_ , after his father’s passing. He had completely cut himself off from everyone he’d known. Blaise, Pansy, Theo, hell even Crabbe and Goyle hadn’t seen him in years, he wasn’t even sure they knew he had returned. He hadn’t planned on returning to London, then the owl from Professor McGonagall had come in, urging him to apply for the position of Potions Master. He had been lounging around the Malfoy chateau just outside Paris living off his parent's galleons, passing the time with massive amounts of alcohol and tragic sex partners that never truly fulfilled him. 

Something about her request had moved him in a way he hadn’t really expected, something deep in his gut tugged at him, as if calling him back home, and without ever really consulting his brain he found himself on the next Portkey back to London and from there, Scotland. It was oddly comforting to be back in the Highlands, the crisp Autumn mornings greeting him all the way down in the dungeons. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed the sound of the Black Lake overhead until he had awoken the next morning, feeling more well-rested than he had in ages. He felt home, more so than he had felt at the Manor since he was a small child, and certainly more so than he’d managed to feel in France. 

The rest of the day passed by in a blur, and by lunchtime Draco found himself pondering the note that had been burning a hole in his robes for the better part of the day, he knew he should really ask Potter about it, but the thought of having the other man tell him it hadn’t been meant for him was far too devastating to bear. He could at least let himself keep up the hope until dinnertime he told himself. 

By dinner time, Draco still hadn’t worked up the courage to ask Potter about the note; staring down the table at him, Draco frowned. _When had Potter gotten so fit?_ He wondered. Eying his own body. He was lean, as he’d always been, if perhaps a little softer than he had been five years earlier. A diet of wine, chocolate, and several kinds of bread and cheese would do that to a person, and he was no taller than he’d been in his last year at Hogwarts. Potter, on the other hand, looked, quite markedly different. He had filled out nicely, his chest and arms were rather marvelous, as was the beard he’d been sporting these days. He had even ditched those sodding glasses in favour of some sort of spell, Draco had to assume. It really brought out his eyes, not that Draco would be caught staring. Even his hair looked less messy. It was longer now, and somehow the length managed to give it a certain sort of impressive style that made Draco want to run his fingers through it. He shuddered at the thought. _Best not to get your hopes up there,_ he told himself. _Wasn’t the Chosen One engaged?_ The French Magical Press didn’t make a habit on discussing the whereabouts of the Golden Boy nearly as much as the Prophet did, and yet Draco was sure he had heard about the engagement of Harry Potter and Ginevra Weasley at some point. He hadn’t gotten an invitation or anything, but he was fairly certain someone had mentioned it. Had it been his mother? She had been the only one who knew his whereabouts after all. Draco shook his head. No ring, that he could see, though he wondered if that wasn’t simply because Potter didn’t feel the need to wear it during classes and had simply forgotten to replace it back on his finger before dinner. Come to think of it, Draco wasn’t sure he had seen a ring at any point over the last few days which meant… _what exactly_? Even if he wasn’t engaged, or married, didn’t mean the note had been for him. 

He looked around at his seatmates again, trying to figure out who else Harry might have intended the note for, but none of the professors beside him were below several hundred years old. Nor did they particularly seem like the type who would be interested in a late night rendezvous with a fellow professor in the Quidditch locker room of all places. It was an oddly specific choice, and a calculated one at that, one which Draco would never have thought Potter had in him. Which could only mean one thing, Potter wanted a duel. 

Draco nearly laughed at the very idea, he wasn’t sure it would be wise to duel against Potter, he _was_ the Defence professor after all, and he was very good at what he did. Still, he had never been one to back down from a fight, so if that’s what Potter wanted he would be ready for it. 

As the clock drew near to ten, Draco pulled himself out of his cozy lounge, just off his classroom in the dungeons, and made his way up the stairs towards the entrance hall and Quidditch locker rooms. A chill ran through the air, as Draco made his way across the misty grass pitch nervously. 

He wasn’t sure what to expect when he arrived, but the sight of Harry Potter standing in the middle of the locker room dressed in his best Quidditch leathers had certainly not been it. 

“I was worried for a second you wouldn’t show up,” Harry admitted. 

Draco eyed him, somewhat confused, “Are… are we meant to play a game?” he asked. 

“Of sorts,” Harry replied with a grin. Draco swallowed, suddenly feeling nervous and very out of his element. 

“O-oh?” he stammered. 

“I can’t tell you how many times I fantasized about doing this when we were in school,” he admitted. “That’s how I realized I was bi,” he laughed. “It was always you. Try though I might to deny it, try though I might to convince myself otherwise, it was always you.”

Draco stared at him confused. Harry grinned, crossing the space between them, shoving Draco up against the lockers, pinning him there with his weight. Draco stared up into those emerald eyes, feeling himself melt. Harry grinned, “Gods I want to kiss you right now,” Harry said. Draco’s eyes widened. Of all the things he had expected Potter to confess to him, that was not one of them. 

“G-go ahead,” he replied, trying to sound braver than he felt. Harry grinned, leaning down and pressed their lips together, softly, so much so that Draco hadn’t realized they were kissing at all until he opened his eyes, and Harry’s hands began to caress his sides. Draco whined. It was easily the best kiss of his entire life. The kiss was better than he had ever dared allowed himself to hope, and by the time Harry pulled away, he was breathless. He shivered. 

“I know it’s a little forward, and maybe you’re not ready but I just need you to know that you’re so beautiful, and the moment I saw you again standing across the hall from me I knew I wanted you.” 

“Y-you did?” Draco asked. 

Harry nodded, pressing his lips to Draco’s ear to give it a soft nibble. Draco shuddered. “The way those robes hug your frame,” he growled into his ear. “All I could think about was slamming you up against these lockers and fucking you until you couldn’t walk.” 

“Oh gods,” it was all he had ever wanted. “But… I…” he could barely think to try and argue. The thought of Harry fucking him up against the lockers was hotter than it had any right to be, and he knew he would give him anything. “Oh bugger it all,” Draco leaned in and kissed him again, letting Harry take the lead. Harry grinned, kissing down his neck eager to have his wicked way with him. 

✸

Oliver should have been finished with his last lesson of the day more than an hour before, but as the minutes had steadily ticked by without him returning to their small apartment in the castle, Percy had given up getting dinner in the Great Hall together with the rest of the school as a lost cause. 

Even though they had a kitchenette in their apartment, and access to the Hogwarts kitchens as well, Percy made every effort that they take their meals with the rest of the school. As the new Gryffindor Head of House, he felt an obligation to be with his students as much as he could. 

At the beginning of the year, the spot had been up for grabs and McGonagall decided to leave it to them to decide who should fill the role. The obvious choice had been Harry Potter - the Golden Boy, youngest Seeker, and former Auror who could no doubt handle the Gryffindor hooligans with ease. When he had vehemently declined the position, Oliver had teased Percy, pretending he was going to vye for the position. Of course, it was all to try and rile Percy up and he very quickly gave in, admitting that the former Prefect was the best for the job. Not that that stopped Percy from demanding repayment for the headache he had given him once they were alone. 

Shedding his robes and loosening his tie, he resigned himself to fetching his boyfriend from the quidditch pitch, where he had no doubt lost track of time. It had happened on more than one occasion. More than Percy could count, if he was being honest. One of the house’s teams showed up for practice and asked him for advice. Or a few students hung back after lessons for a pick-up game and begged him to referee. Sometimes Percy found him just circling the empty lawn alone, working off some steam from a particularly difficult day, leaned low over the handle and pushing himself to the limit to shed the weighted burden of his excess energy and stress.

It was cool enough that he should have brought a cloak, but as Percy trekked across the grounds with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, he didn’t mind the crisp autumn wind that ruffled the grass and trees. As he approached the pitch, he was startled to find a very different picture than he was expecting, or than he had found before. Oliver’s feet were firmly planted on the ground, shocking in itself, but beside him, hovering a scant few feet off the ground was a young student, Oliver’s hand resting on their back.

As Percy drew closer, he recognised the boy as a Slytherin first year - slight, smart as a whip, but incredibly timid. He was smaller even than Percy had been at 11, and his hands trembled where they gripped the broomstick even though his feet could still touch the ground if he lowered them. The wind caught Oliver’s voice, carrying it on the autumn breeze, but rendering the words meaningless to Percy’s ears. Nonetheless, he watched his husband as he coaxed the small boy into flying a small circle around Oliver, his large hand an ever steadying presence.

After completing the circuit, the boy landed clumsily, but even from the distance Percy could see the smile on his face as he looked up at his flight instructor was brighter than the rising moon. The sight wrapped a rope around Percy’s heart and gave a mighty tug, a painful reminder of how wholly and completely smitten he was for this man. The student threw his small arms around Oliver’s waist, before turning and tearing off toward the castle, no doubt to tell his friends of his progress.

Oliver turned to watch as he ran away, raising his hand in greeting when he spied Percy. Retrieving his broom from where it was thrown in the grass, he crossed the grass in a few of his long strides. His eyes strayed over Percy’s shoulder, no doubt verifying they were alone, before gripping Percy by the shoulder and kissing him soundly on the lips. 

“Whit’s the time?”

“Past supper.”

A lopsided, sheepish smile tugged at his lips. “Sairy.”

“S’alright.” Percy shrugged before rising on his toes to kiss Oliver again.

“Ma clothes are in the locker room,” he explained as he slid his hand down to hold Percy’s and threw his broom over his shoulder. 

Percy looked around curiously, having never actually _been_ in the locker room in all their time together. Oliver dropped his hand to unlock his locker, pulling out a hand towel and wiping the sweat from his brow. Leaning back against the wall, he watched Percy inspecting the room with amusement on his face, until he returned to stand in front of Oliver.

Carefully, he removed Percy’s glasses and placed them in his locker before dragging him forward by his tie. Oliver wrapped his other arm around Percy’s narrow waist. “Ye know,” he said, lips hovering just over Percy’s lips, “A used to think about this constantly when we were in school.”

“Think of what?” he asked, feeling betrayed by the breathlessness in his voice.

“Of ye coming in here after a match. Followin’ me off the pitch when A was still sweaty. Or ye being all sneaky like, waiting for the rest of the team to leave and then coming in here yerself and catchin’ me in the showers.” Oliver gave a small laugh before pressing a feather light kiss to his lips. “A used to be the last to leave because A’d linger, hopin’ it would come true, even though ye had no idea A even liked ye. It was the most unrealistic thing but still A wanted it so much it hurt.”

Percy sucked and bit his way up Oliver’s neck, licking the salt stained skin. “Fred and George thought it was because you were trying to drown yourself after a loss.”

“They are rather melo- _oh-_ dramatic like that.”

He laughed, burying his face in the crook of Oliver’s neck. “Like you wouldn’t have done that back then.”

Oliver tightened his hold around his waist and the blood in Percy’s veins roared in response. He delighted in how much bigger Oliver was than him. In how one strong arm could wrap all the way around him and make him feel safe and protected from the rest of the world. 

He had hated it when they were in school. Hated the stupid 4 inches Oliver had on him in height, and the way his sun tanned skin looked compared to Percy’s freckles and perpetually pale. He hated his own glasses and stark jut of his hipbones under thin skin. Hated how insignificant and small he felt every time he had to undress in the dorm, knowing exactly how much _better_ the burly Scot looked from the stolen glances in the early mornings and late evenings.

As if reading his thoughts, Oliver released his tie and trailed his hand down, untucking Percy’s shirt so that he could run his thumb over the soft skin inside his hip bone. “Maybe,” he admitted, and Percy struggled to regain the thread of their conversation. “But anyway, whit d’ye say? We’ve already missed supper, quick romp in the showers?”

Drawing back with an air of mock insult, Percy rested a hand on his boyfriend’s broad chest. “Oliver Wood, are you asking me to engage in public sex, simply to indulge your pubescent fantasies?”

Although fuzzy without his glasses, he didn’t miss the answering roll of eyes. “As if we din’ have a go in the library las-”

Percy shut him up with his lips, still smashed together as he said, “We promised never to speak of that.”

Oliver’s laughter rumbled in his chest as he pulled Percy toward the showers.


End file.
